Calmly, The Shadow finished his cigarette. Tight though the mesh was drawn, he was still secure. Like Rowden and Peju, he was protected by Malfort’s avarice. The money-mad schemer wanted gold. He would wait until it reached the penthouse, where it could be captured at a single stroke, along with Rowden’s gems and the currency left by Furbish. The stacks of silver dollars were small change to Malfort.

More than that, the master crook was confident. The appearance of Lamont Cranston had given him new surety. He thought that he held Henry Arnaud prisoner; even Malfort’s scheming brain could not grasp the idea that Arnaud and Cranston were one. All that Malfort did guess correctly was that either Arnaud or Cranston must be The Shadow. Thinking that both were helpless, Malfort did not care which of the two happened to be his master foe.

AN elevator door had closed while Peju waited in the little anteroom. The written order had gone downstairs. Again, a door clattered; the men in the living room heard Peju directing arrivals to carry a burden from the elevator.

The Shadow arose, to meet four men who were lugging a small, heavy chest. Two of the carriers were uniformed men from the armored truck; the others were employees of the hotel.

The Shadow pointed to a low, wide Oriental bench that stood directly in front of the silver dragon tapestry. The men placed the chest upon the bench; then went back to the elevator. The door clanged shut.

The Shadow glanced indifferently toward Malfort; he saw a gleam of evil eyes. Those optics were the only part of his visage that the master crook could not disguise. The satanic flash told that the plotter foresaw triumph.

Malfort’s moment of final crime would come when he gave the word.

CHAPTER XXI – THE LAST STROKE

“I SHALL show you the gold.”

Speaking calmly, The Shadow stepped toward the chest. Major Rowden approached, with Peju beside him. So did Malfort. The disguised crook darted a quick look toward the tapestry. Malfort was pleased because The Shadow had placed the chest so close to the silver dragon cloth. Marksmen could riddle their victims at short range.

The Shadow unclamped the lid of the chest and raised it on its hinges. Black cloth was spread beneath the cover; The Shadow pulled it carelessly aside to reveal a smaller, inside coffer that almost filled the chest. The cloth had prevented the inner box from jarring.

The inner coffer was made of solid steel. Centered upon its lid were five dials, that formed a graduated series of circles. These were marked with the letters of the alphabet; an arrow pointed from the center, to indicate one row.

“An unbreakable lock,” remarked The Shadow, in the deliberate tone of Cranston. “The combination, of course, depends upon a special word of five letters. It took me a long while to decide upon a suitable word that could be easily remembered.

“I finally chose a word that seemed appropriate, because it was one that a thief would naturally ignore. The word that opens this coffer is -”

The Shadow paused with a smile.

“Perhaps,” he added, “I should let you see the word for yourselves.”

The cloth spread over his left arm, The Shadow used his right hand to finger the dials. Shifting, he pressed Major Rowden to one side; Malfort, unhindered, bent closer. The Shadow turned the dials until they formed the word:

BQJND

“Not quite the word,” he remarked. “Just a tiny change to each dial and then -”

With deft fingers, The Shadow touched the dials in regular order. He moved each a single letter: the first two dials to the right; the third and fourth to the left; the last to the right. The combination spelled the key-word:

CRIME

THE SHADOW’S hand was on the knob, to lift it. Malfort’s gleaming eyes showed sudden rage. Wheeling away, the master crook ripped off his wig with one hand; his other fist went to his pocket to pull a revolver. His lips were opening to deliver the command for death.

The cry did not come. The Shadow had moved as swiftly as Malfort.

Flinging the black cloth over his head, The Shadow pulled the knob upward. With the same move, he twisted sidewise; bowled Rowden and Peju backward as he sprang away from the chest. Simultaneously, a sighing puff broke from the coffer. A cloud of greenish vapor spread with a blast that befogged the entire end of the room.

Cloudy, sea-green moisture splashed the silver dragon tapestry, penetrating its thin cloth. Writhing mist enshrouded The Shadow and Kenneth Malfort. Rowden and Peju were caught in the bombing spray. They staggered away, gasping, coughing. The Shadow’s coffer had delivered an explosion of tear gas – harmless unless received directly, but certain in its purpose. That vapor incapacitated every one who inhaled it. Similarly, the gas watered all eyes that it contacted.

Choking cries came from the wall. Maddened thugs ripped the tapestry away. Caught in a confined spot, they had taken the full effects of the gas, for they had been looking straight toward the chest. The thin cloth of the tapestry had not saved them. They staggered into the room; they rolled about, forgetting their revolvers as they clamped their hands to their stricken faces.

The vapor settled, leaving choking men in its wake. Rowden and Peju had taken it like the thugs; but their plight was less, for The Shadow had shoved them from the danger spot. The Shadow, himself, had avoided the tear gas by twisting the black cloth about his face. Eyes shut, breath held, he counted the seconds while the vapory cloud waned.

His hands unfolded the cloth about his shoulders; it settled, to form a cloak. From it, came a slouch hat that The Shadow clamped upon his head. Opening his eyes, The Shadow delivered a sinister laugh that gasping men could hear with new terror.

Garbed in black, The Shadow pulled automatics from beneath his cloak. He was master of the scene, ready for all comers. Coughing, weeping enemies, would find their only course to be surrender, as soon as they could draw their hands from their faces in order to raise their arms.

THEN came an unexpected challenge, from twenty paces distant. A cough changed to a vicious cry. The Shadow looked to the anteroom. There was Malfort, head raised. Half choking, he was aiming a revolver.

Malfort had dived away from the outpouring gas. Head buried in the wig that he had snatched away, he had made the hall, only partly overpowered by the tear gas. He had recovered sufficiently to attempt battle; nevertheless, The Shadow saw him falter as he aimed.

The Shadow swung an automatic to cover. As he did, a new sound struck his ear. It was a ploppy thump from the other direction – behind the curtains of the inner hall. As Malfort choked, The Shadow ignored him. Swinging about, the cloaked fighter faced the curtains.

Draperies had spread to show a fiendish yellow face; a knife glimmering from a clawish hand above it. It was Ku-Nuan; the killer had scaled the roof of the hotel, to open the trapdoor of the penthouse and drop through. His hand was driving downward; his blade was already on its way, although his fingers still touched the handle.

Had The Shadow stood his ground, the dirk would have found him. Instead, The Shadow faded toward the floor. Only his right hand remained motionless, like a fixed pivot on which his body turned. The knife blade slithered past The Shadow’s left shoulder, cutting the cloak, dirking the flesh beneath it. Steady, The Shadow’s right forefinger pressed a trigger.

Ku-Nuan had stopped at the end of his throw. He was in that position when the bullet reached him. The murderous Mongol shrilled a hideous scream as he jolted backward. He wavered, his evil face contorted, then withered to the foot of the spread curtains. Dark draperies settled above Ku-Nuan’s corpse.